


the mark of the king

by detainyou



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: (my own has been bad lately so this is kind of wish fulfillment), Chronic Pain, Clothed Sex, Fate & Destiny, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Healing Sex, M/M, Old scars, Once and Future King, Sex Magic, angua/sally mentioned, bi carrot, carrot/angua mentioned, carrot/wolf-form angua implied, messianic qualities, prophecy sort of, royal touch, royalty fetish?, subtle banter, superstition and substition, you have no idea how much nerd research went into this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 08:49:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3523034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detainyou/pseuds/detainyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A monarch was only as important as the people made him.  It wouldn't work if you didn't hang your hopes on it.  It quite literally couldn't be true if the maw of fantasy went hungry.</p><p>But his beloved city had had a very long time to dream of kings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the mark of the king

Hanging a golden stamp about their necks,  
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken  
To the succeeding royalty he leaves  
The healing benediction

— _Macbeth_ , Act IV, Scene 3

 

Carrot had always liked the Oblong Office, with its dark forest greens and plush carpets. It was comfortable in the manner of faded riches: well-made enough to last hundreds of years, but without being _opulent_. The Patrician was not one for showiness, and it showed.

'Ah, Captain Ironfoundersson. Come in, I've been expecting you.'

Carrot closed the door behind him and crossed to the broad desk behind which Lord Vetinari sat.

'How are you keeping, sir?'

'Hmm,' Vetinari looked up from what he had been reading. 'Not a question I often hear with any genuineness, I'm afraid. But thank you; I am well. Tell me, what is the price of your services this time?'

Carrot's brow furrowed. 'I beg your pardon, my lord?'

'We both know the score,' said Vetinari, rising from his chair. He would go to the window, Carrot knew; that particular window, he always chose the same one, stood the same distance from the glass, and he would turn his back to you, daring you to feel that you were beneath his notice.

It never worked on Carrot.

'Some villain is apprehended, you arrive agleam with victory. Dartboards and occasionally kettles are negotiated.'

'To be fair, sir, we rarely ask for much. You tend to give us quite a bit more.' _Especially Mr Vimes_ , Carrot thought. But in recent years the commander had begun, slowly but surely, to delegate some of the more distasteful tasks, the most hated of which was being weighed down with medals and titles while Vetinari pretended that it hadn't always been a sure thing. Week after week Carrot found himself spending more time going back and forth to the Palace than he spent doing paperwork. (And Carrot spent a _lot_ of time doing paperwork.) The Commander's shoes were hard to fill, which was why Carrot refused to do so. He simply, well, bridged the _gaps_. After all, Carrot reasoned, there weren't very many gaps, and he was the right shape of person to fill them. He would never dream of trying to go about things in the ways Mr Vimes did—that would be crossing a line. So instead Carrot went about things his own way. It always got results, and that was good for the Watch, and what was good for the Watch was good for the city, and that was all Carrot wanted.

Vetinari's hands were clasped behind his back, and Carrot watched them for any little tells. He'd learned well, but he was still learning.

'To be... _fair_ ,' the Patrician echoed, turning the words over and examining them. 'Not my forte, as I'm sure you are aware, Captain.'

'I could not say what your forte is, my lord.'

You could have heard a pin drop.

A quarter-turn, the bleary sunlight casting an indistinct shadow of his profile across the floor. 'What do you require?' Unclasped hands, now held at a point against his chin. 'Those newfangled trapped-lightning fixtures, perhaps. Increased wages. More men, I don't doubt, and new swords for the lot of you.'

'I'm perfectly happy with my sword, sir,' said Carrot.

'Yes, I'm certain you are.'

Vetinari faced him now, backlit by the fading day, expression obscured. He was such a narrow man, the sort who could walk through those Quirmian patio doors without turning sideways. If Carrot were to stand directly in front of him, the Patrician would be eclipsed completely.

Not that Carrot had any real plans to do that.

'I must insist, what is it you want?'

Carrot considered this. 'We are paid well, we have enough officers for the first time in years, nothing is broken that can't be easily fixed...' He shrugged, a masterwork of shoulder muscles. If there was a god of shoulders, that god surely smiled upon Carrot, and likely regarded him as a prophet. 'I honestly cannot think of anything we need.'

The slightest elevation of a brow transformed Vetinari's entire posture from impassive to curious. Carrot still could not see his face clearly—the sun hitting the city's metal rooftops glinted in his vision, leaving pink shadows when he blinked. 'Then why are you here?'

The captain's expression was so often unreadable, but Vetinari was fluent in many languages.

'As you say, my lord, there is always a price.'

Vetinari returned to his desk, leaning back against the side instead of taking a seat. The weather was decent today and he had not needed to rely on his cane for short distances, but it seemed that, in its absence, his cane-hand wanted something to do. He resisted.

'I suppose,' said the Patrician, 'that the next words out of your mouth are going to be about, ah, let me think, the incalculable value of gratitude, yes?' He could read mild surprise all over Carrot's face. 'And I _am_ grateful, of course. Far be it from me to look down on such valiant efforts.'

The sun was sinking fast beyond the city's artificially built-up horizon, all jagged edges and old facades obscuring the real thing. The clouds had parted like a curtain, there; light caught Carrot in the face, and he moved out of its way. A great golden beam illuminated the floor where he had stood.

'If I may be direct, my lord,' said Carrot, blinking slowly, eyes readjusting to the room.

'By all means. I am eager to hear your views.'

'You seem more interested in goading me into a particular answer than for me to actually have one of my own.'

'And what,' said Vetinari, 'might that particular answer be?'

Carrot shrugged again, briefly. There was a delicate musical sound as his mail shirt shifted. 'While I don't know that, sir, I can guess that you want to get a rise out of me. You always want to get a rise out of Mr Vimes. It's the little game you two play. Can't say I go in for that sort of thing, myself. Too political.'

 _The blunt stone from the mountains with which you may effectively strike the foe. And he_ exploits _that,_ Vetinari thought, _he exploits it deliciously in every way he can. This one is gold in a way that cannot be imitated. Solid. Pure, and truly._

_While our city is rot, with just enough gold leaf to make it shine._

'Luckily there are those of us who take it upon ourselves to see to such matters for you,' said Vetinari softly.

There was an intake of breath, and Carrot gave the Patrician a considering look. Something, some indefinable aspect _changed_ , and his presence in the room was at once more viscerally palpable. It was as if all shadows deepened, while the setting sun leapt fierce and close like a bowl of fire, and—the oddest of all—the constant, low burn of pain in Vetinari's leg eased just enough for him to be startled by it. He gripped the edge of his desk behind him, hands hidden so the captain couldn't see how tightly he held on.

'Tell me,' said Carrot, his amiable voice tinted a shade Vetinari didn't recognize, 'do you believe in angels?'

Vetinari faltered, his personal world dropping away in small shards that nevertheless added up. 'I... don't believe I understand you, Captain.'

Many things happened when Carrot smiled. In a strictly physical sense his lips parted, the edges curled upward, a dimple appeared among the freckles on his right cheek but not on the left, and you could see a little gap between his front teeth. But look closer, _closer:_ ancient battles raged, thousands of men and horses and towering machines of vengeance faced one another across trampled fields, beyond the harbor ships perished in unquenchable flame, smoke climbing, screams and weeping, night falling, there was no light anywhere in the world, the terrible silence that froze the marrow, and then, gloriously, beyond belief, with the morning dew the golden one _rose_ from the wreckage and gore, clawed his way to the standing stones, pulling himself along the bloodied ground with his sword, and he lay down to rest on the sacrificial slab encircled there and dreamed awhile, and when the sun was at its peak the gods held their breaths and watched as the King awoke.

Lord Vetinari didn't mean to say it, which was a dangerous thing. Vetinari was a meaning man; every action intentioned to the hilt. No deed without its foundation. He didn't mean to say it, but gods, he _needed_ to, and it escaped him on the wings of a shallow breath, truly escaped him like a long-held prisoner coming up from a dungeon, blinking hard against dawn, ' _Sire_.'

'Answer me,' said Carrot, kindly.

'I don't,' said Vetinari, voice hushed. 'An idea, nothing more.'

Carrot opened his belt pouch and fished something out of it. It flashed as the gathering sunset pinged off it, almost audibly.

'Catch.'

The coin spun a stop-motion-iconograph arc, its obverse and reverse winking cheerfully through the air. Vetinari's left hand darted out with assassin's precision, snatching the gold piece just as it began its descent.

But in that moment he felt almost as if he had risen off the floor to meet it in midair. Almost as if he had been somewhere else, just for an instant. And he felt... changed.

A quiet breath and he was himself again.

'They only work if you believe in them, you see,' Carrot was saying as Vetinari returned to his senses.

Vetinari uncurled his fingers and looked at the coin in his palm.

A roughly-stamped impression, the silhouette of a human shape with wings at its waist, the figure surmounted by letters he couldn't quite make out. The opposite side bore a sword crossed with an axe.

'They're called angels since they've got an angel on them... obviously.'

'So I surmised. Where did you get this?' But Vetinari suspected the answer. He had seen one of these angels before, in the Assassin's Guild Museum, in his school days. It hadn't been on display—you had to be accompanied by the curator and the Master of the guild, himself, led through a strange chamber of accordion shelves which rolled on well-oiled casters out of the wall. That coin had been kept on a red velvet cushion in a bell jar of flawless glass. It was said to have the power to leach all evil from the soul and leave it clean. You had to look at it through pinholes in a card. _No one_ was allowed to touch it.

'I can't be rid of the things!' said Carrot with a laugh. 'When I was young, back at the mine, they were falling out of the walls wherever I went! Everyone called them carrot coins. No one really knew what they were for, of course, so we just melted them down. And now I'm always finding them in my boots when I wake up, and between cobbles. I find them everywhere.'

_No, they find You._

Vetinari didn't ask why the overseer of a small Dwarf mine had seen fit to send away his adopted son when the boy was practically _shedding_ gold. But of course there was a reason: Fate was a skilled negotiator.

'Do _you_ know what it's for?' said Vetinari, trying not to bristle where he stood. He seemed foreign to himself, almost, unfamiliar with his own shape. He felt scoured-out, all moving parts oiled from the inside.

Carrot closed the twist-latch of his belt pouch again. 'I give them to people, and things... get better for them. It's like they're lucky.' He looked a little sly, and said in a stage-whisper, ' _Mostly_ I hide them in Mr Vimes' desk.'

Vetinari realized he was putting his weight on his damaged leg. And there was no pain, save for the uneasy stiffness of joints rarely relied upon for support. The muscle and bone seemed, upon casual inventory, to be in working order. He could still feel the scar, raised and slightly numb, but that hardly mattered when his leg's prior state could best be described as 'cored like an apple by a bloody massive rocketing ball of rage'.

'Oh, and they seem to heal injuries,' said Carrot as an afterthought, pacing a little stretch of carpet. 'Scrofula too, and dandruff, I think. Though you can never be too careful with this sort of thing, I mean, it sounds a lot like _magic_. Who knows where the sickness goes when it leaves someone? So I try to use them responsibly when it comes to that.'

Vetinari stared at the royal touch piece—for that was what it was—cupped in the palm of his hand.

'And,' Carrot went on, ' _well_. The last time you summoned me, er—sorry to mention it, sir, but your limp was just dreadful that night, what with the chill and the damp. It wouldn't do to let you carry on hurting like that.'

Vetinari went and sat down behind his desk. Gods, even the chair was more comfortable now.

'You have to believe in them, do you?' he said.

Carrot nodded. 'It only works if you truly serve the King, yes. I did some research.'

'I see.'

'Direct touch works even better, I've noticed.'

Vetinari entertained a brief image of Carrot combing the city for dyed-in-the-wool, old-world monarchists with war wounds, giving them an emphatic tap on the forehead with the heel of his hand like a certain breed of priest, saying, _Arise and walk in the light!_ It wasn't that difficult to imagine, though Carrot would probably just give them a friendly pat on the arm, or worse, a hug.

'And if you don't believe in and serve the King, what happens?'

Carrot, unlike Vimes, had no qualms about sitting down in the presence of Vetinari, and sprawled comfortably into a chair. 'Nothing at all! If you don't believe, it's just gold. And while gold is nice and all,' he said this in a manner that would likely make his parents fear for his sense if they ever heard him, 'quite a lot of other things are better, don't you agree?'

Vetinari cast his mind back to everything he knew about royal touch. From a young age he had closely studied sub- and superstition throughout history; knowing what conclusions people will jump to means knowing just where to give them a little _push_.

As Carrot had said: royal laying-on of hands or a suitably imbued touch piece were said to cure scrofula and dandruff, as well as rickets, hemorrhage, convulsive fits, glandular fever, excessive gambling, rheumatism, cataracts, lack of rhythm, 'liquor enslavery', and what—depending on your source of information—was called either the Klatchian disease, the Quirmian disease, or the Cost of Living in Ankh-Morpork.

Unique properties said to belong to the King were, among various Virtues and moral qualities, the ability to influence the weather, enrich barren soil, manipulate light, 'speak peace unto all the peoples of the Disc', and something about little children flocking to him. There was also said to be an utter void where fear was supposed to be. If the true King looked at you he could See into your heart of hearts and lo, in a fervent and unnecessary ecstasy of capitalization, He would Know you, and Truth would Be Revealed, and He would place His Hands upon you and Bestow His Gift.

Carrot noted the Patrician's thoughtful silence.

'This is all very simple,' he said, fingertips tracing the brass tacks of his chair's armrests. 'There didn't seem to be a point to dancing round it any longer. You know and I know. Commander Vimes knows. Most people seem to, honestly. I don't mind, I simply don't feel that it would best for me to take that role. I'm useful where I am, so I should stay there.'

 _Useful!_ Vetinari could have laughed. Carrot Ironfoundersson had the power to take the city over his knee and flog it into submission, but all he wanted was to be _useful._

Oh, they were so alike.

He would have laughed, had his heart not been pounding.

'I don't want or need any more power,' said Carrot, and his expression was one the Patrician had never seen him wear: lowered eyelids, and yes, a hint of a _smirk_. 'I've got plenty.'

Vetinari would have made some crisp, acerbic little comment, had the ancient gold piece not remained cool and comforting despite his heated grip on it. And oh, yes, Vetinari would have made a point, had Carrot not been looking at him like that.

'You're exactly where I want you,' said Carrot, getting to his feet. Knuckles on the desktop, Carrot leaned forward. Vetinari could feel the breath stir his hair. 'You're exactly where you _need_ to be.'

Vetinari's fist was closed tight around the coin once more, funneling all the cracks in his composure into the angel, the sword, the axe.

He hadn't meant to close his eyes, which was a dangerous thing. _No deed without foundation,_ he reminded himself as his eyes shot open again, _No deed without_ —but the backs of Carrot's fingers were now stroking down the side of Vetinari's neck, followed by a plaintive whisper that was just as much a caress, 'Did it work?'

Vetinari had to maintain some semblance of order in all this. 'No.'

'That's a shame.' Carrot sounded genuinely disappointed. 'But I suppose it's not up to me.'

 _All of this is up to you! Gods, if you would just_ —no. No, it's only an idea. An idea and nothing more. A monarch was only as important as the people made him. It wouldn't work if you didn't hang your hopes on it. It quite literally couldn't be true if the maw of fantasy went hungry.

But his beloved city had had a very long time to dream of kings.

'I had hoped...' said Carrot, pulling away a little, 'are you _certain_? You don't feel the slightest bit better at all?'

Vetinari shook his head a fraction of an inch. Familiar constellations stood out in the freckles on Carrot's cheekbone. The Journey Lantern. The Whore's Apple. There, just under his eye, was the Scroll of the Law.

'Perhaps I ought to touch you more?' Carrot said, a little breathless and not sure if it was really a question, and still Vetinari saw the old story-stars reveal themselves across his face. The Dead Men. The Burning House.

'Yes,' he said absently, what was it that he should have been thinking? Foundations. What were they?

Nestled against the edge of Carrot's jaw were the Broken Cannon, the Wolf At Bay. Next to his mouth, clear and so obvious, was War. Over an eyebrow, Vetinari could make out the shape of—he almost laughed—the Gods' Dartboard. And just below Carrot's full, oft-bitten lower lip, the Palace.

As in all things: if you look closely enough, everything falls into place.

Carrot was gentle and efficient, so much so it was difficult to keep track of what had progressed in the past two minutes. Carrot's hands seemed to move slowly and with cautious wonder, and yet Vetinari was surprised by how many buttons were no longer doing their jobs. Loosened collar and traitorous sleeve had slouched down one arm so Carrot could softly bite at neck and shoulder. At some juncture his cuffs had been undone, as well. Carrot's hand slid into Vetinari's shirt and skimmed over one nipple, nothing insistent, no pinch or pressure of his fingers—it was almost as if he simply wanted to know precisely where it was on the map.

Vetinari retrieved his voice; he had not lost sight of it, simply set it down for awhile in favor of soft, imploring breaths. He must choose his words carefully at this stage, assert that this was his decision, his office, his city, _his_ —

What he said, or rather growled, was, ' _Damn this desk_ ,' and Carrot leapt lightly over it without a second thought, straddling Vetinari in his chair even as Vetinari grabbed Carrot's hips and pulled them against his.

'Am I hurting you?' Carrot asked, nuzzling, kissing Vetinari's neck and rocking his hips so gently it was _criminal_.

'You would know if you were.' That rang true for some reason, and Vetinari believed it.

'So it _did_ work!'

Vetinari was trying to undo the buckles of Carrot's breastplate by feel alone, and was a little irritated that he was out of practice shucking someone's armor off in a wanton hurry. It was unwieldy and rigid and _in the way._

'What?'

'The touch piece, it worked, didn't it? You liar,' said Carrot fondly, and turned Vetinari's face so he could kiss him.

The laws of narrative causality dictate that people smell like—and in the event of kissing, taste like—three things. The first two ingredients of the bouquet vary widely according to age, geographic location, economic status and susceptibility to addiction, but the third is always Something Uniquely Theirs.

Carrot Ironfoundersson, however, tasted like toothpaste and standard-issue mouth, and that was all. Plain ordinary toothpaste, not even with an attractive blue stripe in it. There wasn't anything Uniquely His about it, just like how he smelled of soap and armor polish and absolutely nothing else (unless it was beastly hot that day). Carrot was the most straightforward, trustworthy person alive, and would not alarm you with a suspicious whiff of mango if his life depended on it.

Carrot, to his credit, knew nothing whatsoever about narrative causality, and was just pleased to be kissing someone that he liked very much.

Because truly, he did like Lord Vetinari. If asked to describe the Patrician, most people would say something along the lines of, _we-ell, at least he's better than Snapcase._ Various guild leaders would decline comment and curse under their breaths as they stalked away. Vimes would likely include the words _infuriating, bloody-minded, selfish, good-for-nothing, heartless, stick-up-his-arse, demanding_ and _prick_ , not necessarily in that order. But ask Carrot to describe Vetinari—or rather, why he liked him so damn much, which Angua had wondered after witnessing a particularly snide conversation—and his answer was:

_Imagine you have a sprain, it's your strongest arm, and you've got to have it all bound up for days, and when you take the wrappings off it's weak and trembling. That was life before him._

_And you know how when things finally get back to normal, and you feel strong again and it's almost like the sprain never happened, but it's also like you feel really Whole for the first time in your_ _life? That second bit, that's now._

(Angua had made a considering noise in the direction of the ceiling, which they had both been staring at and getting their breath back, as she and Carrot were laid out on the floor, her head pillowed on the cushion from her basket, Carrot tactfully fishing a semi-canine hair from his mouth. 'Since it's inadvisable confession time,' Angua said in reply, 'I've got a mad schoolgirl pash on Sally, for my sins.' And they arrived at a _very_ agreeable agreement, _you know, just in case an opportunity were to come up._ )

Carrot learned that if he hooked the toes of his boots around the front legs of the chair, he could get purchase enough to really put his back into grinding their hips together. In all honesty, once he'd learned how, Carrot quite enjoyed 'doing all the work'. As it turned out that was what he was best at, and it was so nice to see everything squared away just where it needed to be, just how it needed to be done, for everyone's sake. He looked for hints, tried to read the cues almost before they surfaced. Sometimes he was off-target, but most of the time he was right.

Vetinari had defeated the buckles at last, and Carrot laid his very shiny breastplate on the desk behind him as if it might shatter if he dropped it, then pulled the mail shirt over his head, and the linen shirt from under that. Carrot leaned the small of his back against the edge of the desk and pressed his thighs round Vetinari's, encouraging pressure and—Carrot freely admitted to himself—possessiveness.

Lord Vetinari told himself he wasn't going to look for the birthmark, it didn't _matter_ whether Carrot had it or not, and besides, Vetinari didn't believe in the legends, anyway, he reminded himself very forcefully. After all, what was a birthmark but an imperfection?

He found it within seconds, there on one muscular arm and, eyes falling closed, kissed it with reverence.

'Oh, you needn't—' said Carrot, but no, he was taken aback by how alluring, how devastating that simple action was. It broke something into pieces and put it back together _better_ than it was before, yet somehow more fragile. And when Vetinari looked up at him again, and looked as if he almost needed to shield his eyes, and some little broken piece in Vetinari made a little broken sound, Carrot knew that's how the world might come to an end, if you let it.

And Vetinari found the scars, numerous and knotted fists of old pain, the ghosts of countless bolts, knives, shattered bottles, swords, claws and teeth. He was mindful of them, wary, knowing well the perturbing zing of numbness that was so often the companion of damage. And with as much awe as he had shown the Mark of the King, with as much certain knowledge of what they meant, he pressed his lips to each. Carrot stilled, hands twined in Vetinari's hair, and _sighed_.

Vetinari shaped the words against Carrot's skin, not daring speak them: _Majesty. Sire. My King._ And with such hesitation, his lips barely moving, _mine._

Carrot shivered, and with a hitching breath was the Patrician's undoing.

He took Vetinari's hands, guiding them to hold his own right hand, the palm a callused shadow of the grip of his sword. 'Yours,' he said, 'to guide where you will.'

With some adjusting of hips and a creak of the chair, Carrot's fingers were led down between their bodies. A tug of laces and another, drawing the length of them with tantalizing slowness from their moorings, even as Vetinari did the same. They worked together, mirroring each other's movements, never in each other's way, until a little tangle of two cords was dropped to the floor, and their respective breeches were no longer such an obstacle.

There is something to be said for patience, in these moments. Too quick and the harmony leaves you, dissolving into desperation before the time is right for it. Thus caresses were measured, unhurried and light, until Carrot noticed the coin still in Vetinari's hand. He had palmed it, somehow, holding on, and Carrot had not seen until then.

'Have you got any pockets?' he asked, though his focus was still trained on the slow revelation of what he sought.

'Everywhere,' said Vetinari. With slight reluctance, he tucked the coin away somewhere in his open coat.

To bridge the stutter of their momentum Carrot arched his back, letting his eyes close, right hand curling into a comfortable grip, and just as he drew his hand up in a leisurely stroke, he squirmed a little with eagerness and whispered, ' _Mine_.'

Later the Patrician could have sworn that he, Vetinari, couldn't possibly make such a needy sound whatever the circumstances, but there it was between them now, heard as clearly as any confession.

'Shh,' said Carrot, 'I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.'

Oh, he simply _couldn't_ allow that tone, not here, not now. The sheer _sentiment_ of it—

Vetinari growled low in his chest, circled Carrot's grasp with his own and Carrot's cock as well, and began a relentless pace. Not driven by urgency, but by determination, a non-negotiable _requirement_ that issued from the core of himself to see the look of abandon on Carrot's face. Carrot was obliging, because of course he was, he always seemed to find the Right Thing and pin it down and make it neat and somehow charming. Carrot was entirely too good for him, but far be it from Vetinari to protest when what he wanted had climbed into his lap.

Up until now Carrot had been rather economical with his utterances, but it seemed that he had been saving them for just such a time.

'Gods, _yes_ , don't stop,' Carrot hissed as the head of his cock, glossy and flushed with heat, slid against Vetinari's and through their fingers as each stroke nearly released their grip before plummeting once more, and ' _Please_ ,' as Vetinari dragged sharp nails down Carrot's chest, grazing his nipples just enough so that he gasped, and ' _Need_ this,' as Vetinari flicked at the hollow of Carrot's collarbone with his tongue, and haltingly, 'wanted— _ahh!_ ' as Vetinari added a little rotation of his wrist to their strokes, and biting his lip hard to contain a keening moan before 'want _you_ —'

Through the heady intensity of all this, Vetinari realized somewhere in the back of his mind that the sun ought to have gone down by now. And yet, the room was bright, almost _too_ bright, and now brilliant sun was flooding every corner, every inch, driving the shadows out—

Instead of the cry Vetinari had expected as Carrot spent himself over their hands, the pitch of Carrot's voice took a sudden _drop_ to a moan so rough and guttural that Vetinari could feel it in his very bones. People often forgot that Carrot was a native speaker of Dwarfish, but a sound like _that_ left no doubt whatsoever. It shattered what resolve Vetinari had left, and now Carrot had eased Vetinari's hand away, and placed his own hands on either side of Vetinari's cock and pressed them gently together, as if in a position of prayer. His own seed provided a lush, comfortable slickness that offered little resistance, and Carrot was able to work with ease at an almost _galloping_ tempo, that smirk telling of _impossible_ wickedness, and in a voice that must be obeyed, he said, 'Come.'

Eventually the room composed itself around them, resuming its usual shadowy chill. The sky beyond the windows was the grimy dark blue of approaching night. Carrot had a found a soft handkerchief somewhere and fastidiously tidied them up without having to move all that much.

His slightly drowsy smile was unfair in the extreme, and so was the soft, almost shy little kiss that followed, but Vetinari allowed it.

'Stealth,' said Carrot.

Vetinari gave him an indulgent look. 'Not the typical afterword in these circumstances.'

'No, I mean,' and Carrot grinned, 'that's the price this time. I want you to teach me stealth.'

Vetinari couldn't help but laugh, if only briefly. When carnality had turned in for the evening and all was still, he slid back into decorum like a favorite robe.

Carrot was _abysmal_ at sneaking; this was a well-established thorn in Vimes' side. Carrot seemed to think that omission was the same as an outright lie, but he was a fast learner, and learning from the best was bound to do him a world of good. And it would be tied up with the best ribbon of all: a grudging admission from Vimes that he appreciated Vetinari's help. A wealth of entertainment from all sides.

'So be it,' said Vetinari. 'Though I must ask, if _that_ was your price, then—'

Carrot looked appalled. 'Surely you didn't think I had come here _expecting_ anything of,' he gestured at the space between them, ' _this nature_?' He shook himself, a common sign of that most insidious and sudden of afflictions, the Creeps. 'No, absolutely not. I would _never_.' Then Carrot seemed to fully shake off the unthinkable idea, and kissed Vetinari's brow. 'No, this was, er, shall we call it a laying-on of hands?'

Vetinari pinched his side and Carrot laughed at the look on his face, squirming away.

'Get out. No terrible wordplay in my office.'

Carrot waggled his eyebrows. 'Would you prefer me to call it hand-to-hand combat?'

'Out! Take your damned armor with you, it's on my blotter.'

Carrot got to his feet, re-laced his breeches and threw on his shirt and armor with the liveliness of someone used to being roused from a dead sleep into a melee. Fully dressed, he gave Vetinari a smart little bow, all business once more.

'Have a good evening, sir, and thank you for your time.'

Vetinari, now fully buttoned and laced in, himself, waved Carrot away. 'Off with you, then, Captain.'

As the door snicked closed, Vetinari reached into his pocket for the coin, holding it tight, the gold solid in his hand, pure and true.

**Author's Note:**

> the coin is based on the angel or angel-noble coin introduced to england by edward iv in 1465, believed to cure illness and bring good luck, often issued in a healing ceremony known as the royal touch. there is also a long historical precedent of belief in the power of touch-pieces, coins into which the power of a monarch (and therefore god's blessing) has been transferred. they were not really seen as being magic, per se, relying more upon the idea of the absolute power and divine right of monarchs.
> 
> the concept of ancient coins appearing when the true king passes by--and destiny freckles--comes from a fairy tale my mom used to tell me when i was a kid; i'm not sure if it was a retelling of a classic story or not, i haven't been able to find evidence of it online. the basic premise was that there was a boy born in the wilderness of a lawless land, and he walked and walked, and as he walked gold cried out from the ground and appeared at his feet. everywhere he went he was able to help the poor and alleviate suffering, and the boy had no idea he was the rightful king until a wounded man he healed saw the pattern of freckles on his face.


End file.
